Jungle Rules

by Charles W. Henderson

  “As Captain Heyster had you testify earlier,” O’Connor continued, “you and Private Harold Rein were very close friends.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cross said and nodded, and then quickly wiped his eye with his fist, just as Heyster had told him to do, to gain sympathy from the jury. “We joined up on the buddy system.”

  “Right!” O’Connor said, and picked up a legal pad. “You testified that you and Harold Rein joined the Marine Corps together, went to boot camp together. You even went to the brig together, didn’t you.”

  “Sir, Captain Heyster told me I didn’t need to answer anything about me and Buster going to the brig any of those times,” Cross said, and looked at Charlie Heyster, who leaped to his feet.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Heyster said, looking at his witness, whom he had instructed to say nothing if asked about his two times in the brig with Buster Rein. “The witness’s service record is not relevant to this case. What he observed has nothing to do with whether he ever served time in the brig.”

  Colonel Richard Swanson, who flew to Da Nang from Fleet Marine Force, Pacific Headquarters, in Hawaii, to preside over the murder trial of Private First Class Celestine Anderson, put up his hand when he saw Terry O’Connor about to counter Charlie Heyster’s objection.

  “Captain Heyster, I am overruling your objection because I allowed you to open that very door with your witness’s combat record,” the judge said, and nodded at the defense counsel to proceed.

  “You and Private Rein did serve time in the brig, right here in Vietnam, isn’t that correct, Private Cross?” O’Connor said, leaning over the lectern and looking coldly at the witness.

  “Yes, sir,” Cross mumbled, but then looked up, curling his lip at the captain. “We didn’t start none of those fights. They just stuck us in the brig because they didn’t like us boys from Alabama. Them damned niggers started all those fights. Just like this time.”

  “Damned niggers. Right. They got you and your pal, Buster Rein, thrown in the brig both times. Right?” O’Connor said, and walked in front of the lectern, crossed his arms, and looked at the six jurors, one of whom was a black Marine staff sergeant.

  “Your Honor!” Heyster shouted. “The defense counsel is leading the witness, and goading him to express these unacceptable racial epithets.”

  “Is this an objection, Captain?” Judge Swanson said, looking over the top of his tortoiseshell-framed half-glasses.

  “Ah, yes, sir!” Heyster responded.

  “Overruled,” the judge said with a smile, and then looked at Terry O’Connor. “Captain O’Connor, you are also opening some dangerous doors for your client. I understand the nature of your questioning, but racial tension is an area of deep concern for the Marine Corps today. So be cautious on where you may tread.”

  Terry O’Connor nodded, stepped back behind the lectern, and read his notes. Then he looked up at Leonard Cross.

  “Private Cross,” the defense lawyer said, “you had just gotten promoted to lance corporal when you came to Vietnam, and your friend Private Rein was a private first class. You have no page eleven entries prior to coming to Vietnam either. What happened?”

  “We got put on shit detail,” Cross answered, now slouching down in the witness chair. “We had this gunny that didn’t like us.”

  “Was he black?” O’Connor asked, looking at his notes.

  “Yes, sir,” Cross answered, and then narrowed his eyes and looked hard at the defense lawyer.

  “Why do you suppose a black gunny would have it in for you two?” O’Connor asked, looking back at the witness and not blinking.

  “ ’Cause of this,” Cross snarled, and then pulled up the sleeve of his shirt, exposing the stars-and-bars rebel flag tattooed on his shoulder.

  “That’s the flag of the Confederacy, correct?” O’Connor asked Cross.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” Cross answered, letting down his sleeve.

  “It expresses your southern roots, does it not?” O’Connor said, looking at the jury.

  “Yes, sir,” Cross answered.

  “You’re proud of the fact that you’re a southern boy,” O’Connor said, smiling at the witness.

  “Damn right, sir,” Cross said, holding his head high and pitching his shoulders back as he now scooted upright in the witness chair.

  “I’m from Philadelphia, the city where our Constitution was born,” O’Connor said, smiling. “I fully understand what you mean.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cross said, taking a deep breath.

  “That black gunny you worked for, he didn’t understand though, did he,” O’Connor said, leaning over the lectern and looking at Cross sympathetically.

  “No, sir,” Cross said, shaking his head. “He called me and Buster and Duke and Ray white trash, and put us on shit detail because we was proud of who we was.”

  “That made you mad, right?” O’Connor said, still leaning over the lectern.

  “Made me feel like it wasn’t no use,” Cross said, looking down at his hands.

  “So you didn’t take shit off anybody then, did you?” O’Connor asked.

  “No, sir, we didn’t,” Cross said.

  “I think we all understand, and greatly appreciate your frustration with racial bias,” O’Connor said, looking back at his notes.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cross said, and then reached for a glass of water set on a side table for the witness.

  “You ever hear of the Grand Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, or any variation of that name, the Klan or the K-K-K?” O’Connor asked, and looked at Charlie Heyster for an objection but got none.

  “Of course I have, sir,” Cross said, and frowned. “Everybody’s heard of the Klan.”

  “Down in Dothan, Alabama, where you and Harold Rein were both born and raised, did you ever see anybody from the Ku Klux Klan, or ever know anybody in the Klan?” O’Connor asked.

  “No sir, not me,” Cross said, and smiled at Charlie Heyster.

  “You and your buddy Buster never went to any Klan meetings, and certainly never joined it,” O’Connor said, looking at the witness, who kept smiling.

  “That’s a secret club, sir,” Cross said, leaning back in his chair. “Nobody knows anybody in it, unless they’s in it, too.”

  “What do you think of the Grand Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Private Cross?” O’Connor asked, leaning on the lectern again, clasping his hands.

  “They just some old outfit from the Civil War,” Cross said, wrinkling his lips, trying to outguess the questions now.

  “So they’re just historic. Not around anymore?” O’Connor said, still clasping his hands.

  “Not exactly,” Cross said, shrugging. “Everybody’s seen the stuff on television about the race protests and such down in Mississippi and back home, too. They got some guys I seen wearing the Klan robes.”

  “So all you know about the Klan is what you saw on television news of the racial protesters,” the defense lawyer said. “Who’s right in that mess?”

  “Now, sir, the Ku Klux Klan did good for the South, back when the Yankees took over everything. They run out the carpetbaggers and whatnot. We learned all that in school,” Cross said, defending his heritage.

  “So the Ku Klux Klan is not a racist hate group then,” O’Connor then said, looking at the jury.

  “Sir, not like you Yankees think,” Cross said.

  “Your Honor,” Charlie Heyster stood, and then looked at Terry O’Connor, “we are supposed to be examining the murder of Harold Rein, not trying him and the prosecution’s witness. Many southern people regard the Ku Klux Klan much differently than we from other regions. It has no bearing on the death of Private Rein, though. I object to this continued trial of the Ku Klux Klan and beg Your Honor to bring us back to the subject of the murder.”

  “Point well taken, Captain Heyster,” the judge said, and then looked at O’Connor. “Captain, we are clear on the witness’s perspective or racial prejudices and the Ku Klux Klan. Can we now move on to something more directly re
levant to the events that led to the death of Private Rein? If you please.”

  The defense counsel looked at his notes and then looked up at Leonard Cross.

  “Laddie. That’s your nickname, is it not?” O’Connor continued.

  “They call me Laddie instead of Leonard, yes, sir,” Cross said, folding his arms.

  “What about that other tattoo?” the defense lawyer said, tapping himself on his right shoulder. “The one above your rebel flag.”

  Leonard Cross pushed up his sleeve and turned his shoulder toward the jury.

  “That’s a Maltese Cross above your flag tattoo, is it not?” O’Connor said.

  “I don’t know about Maltese, but it’s a cross,” Leonard said, letting down his sleeve.

  “What does it represent?” O’Connor asked.

  “Nothing, just a cross. I’m a Christian, you know,” the private said, looking at Heyster for help but getting none.

  “Buster, and your other buddies, Duke and Ray, they all have that same tattoo, do they not?” O’Connor asked, and smiled at Charlie Heyster.

  “Yes, sir. We’re all southern boys. You know that,” Cross said, wrinkling his lips and narrowing his eyes at the defense lawyer.

  “What about the circle around the cross, is that a Christian symbol, too?” O’Connor asked, and looked at Heyster, but he now only looked at his notepad.

  “That’s just part of the cross, sir,” the private said, shrugging.

  “It looks just like this cross, does it not?” O’Connor said, and held up an eight-inch-by-ten-inch photograph of a man wearing a white peaked hood and a white robe with a circled Maltese cross on the left breast, identical to the tattoo on Leonard Cross’s shoulder.

  “That’s the symbol of the Ku Klux Klan,” the private said, and then curled his lips at the jury, and stared straight at the black sergeant seated there.

  “Correct!” O’Connor said, and took the photograph to the presiding judge and laid it on his desk. “Sir, we ask that the court enter the photograph of the Ku Klux Klan costume as defense exhibit twelve.”

  Walking to the edge of the witness stand, leaning on the rail, and looking hard into Laddie Cross’s eyes, O’Connor then asked, “Is there or has there been a brotherhood of you good southern boys here in Da Nang who espoused the teachings and philosophies of the Ku Klux Klan?”

  “I can’t say,” Cross snapped back, and scowled at the lawyer.

  “That’s right, it’s a secret society,” O’Connor said, and looked at the jury. “The Marine Corps would put you and anyone else in it back in the brig for having such a group. Right?”

  “It’s just a tattoo, sir,” Cross answered, and clenched his teeth.

  “That’s all I have for this witness, sir,” O’Connor said, and walked back to the defense table, where Wayne Ebberhardt sat next to Celestine Anderson, his wrists clapped in manacles chained to a belt he wore around his chest, and his legs chained to the chair.

  “Any redirect questions, Captain Heyster?” Colonel Swanson asked.

  “Yes, sir, Your Honor,” Heyster answered without standing. Then he looked at Leonard Cross, who sat in the witness chair wiping sweat from his face with his hands.

  “Who killed Private Harold Rein?” the prosecutor then asked the witness.

  “That man there,” Laddie Cross answered, pointing to Celestine Anderson.

  “You saw him do it, correct?” Heyster asked.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” Cross answered.

  “What did you see Private Rein do before he was so brutally murdered?” Heyster asked.

  “He just asked that guy there for a light,” Cross said, pointing at Celestine Anderson. “He just wanted him to light his cigarette. That guy hit Buster in the head with his hatchet, and killed him right there on the spot. They weren’t no fight. He just killed him when Buster stood there getting a light.”

  “That it?” the judge asked Charlie Heyster.

  The prosecutor nodded, and the colonel excused Leonard Cross from the stand.

  “Sir, before the prosecution calls his next witness, the defense will stipulate that Private First Class Celestine Anderson did in fact kill Private Buster Rein by striking him in the head with his field ax,” Terry O’Connor said, standing behind the defense table. “The prosecution has listed seventy-six witnesses, and in the consideration of time and expedience, the defense will stipulate those matters of evidence.”

  “Thank you, Captain O’Connor,” Colonel Swanson said as he took a brief that Staff Sergeant Pride handed to him, expressing in detail the stipulations. Then he handed a copy of the statement to the prosecution, who quietly read the document.

  “Your Honor, the remainder of my witnesses simply support these stipulations; therefore, the prosecution rests its case,” Heyster said, and dropped the brief on a neatly laid pile of manila folders that Captain Philip Edward Bailey-Brown had tried to keep organized in several equally distant rows, but that Charlie Heyster kept scattering anytime he looked in one.

  “Good,” the judge said, looking at his watch. “How about we quit early today, and get started with the defense arguments first thing tomorrow.”

  Terry O’Connor stood and smiled as he watched the presiding judge leave, and the jury file out the door.

  “You’re a motherfucker, O’Connor,” Heyster whispered to him as he stepped from the prosecution table. “That race shit will bite your client squarely in the ass come tomorrow. I hope you’re not thinking of putting him on the stand. I will rip him to shreds.”

  “He’s leading off, Charlie.” O’Connor smiled and shrugged happily, and watched Major-Select Heyster stomp out of the courtroom.

  Philip Edward Bailey-Brown finished stacking his manila folders back in a dark brown accordion file and tied it shut with the brown silk ribbons wrapped around the container. Tucking it under his left arm, above his briefcase, he walked to where Wayne Ebberhardt and Terry O’Connor busily put away their papers.

  “Captain O’Connor, nice job,” the New England aristocrat said, and put out his right hand that the defense lawyer immediately took and shook.

  “Thanks, Philip,” O’Connor said, surprised by the gesture from a man who until now had not said two words to him in the five months he had served in Vietnam.

  “Tomorrow is another day, after all,” Bailey-Brown said, and smiled. “However, you are the first to ever get the shyster’s goat. The first I have seen. You beat him down to his bootstraps today, sir. My compliments.”

  Chapter 12

  THE MEASURE OF A FOOL

  SILENCE AWAKENED HUONG Van Nguyen. He sat up in the pitch darkness from the mat where he had lain, covered by a thin wool blanket. Bao sat up, too. The sudden lack of sound outdoors had stirred him from his sleep as well. The elder Nguyen brother snapped his fingers for the dog to come to him, but Turd had long since gone from the thatched-roof house, following Mau Mau Harris as he had slipped away while the two cowboys slept.

  The American tried to make the motley pooch go back to the farm, but the rotten cur would have none of it. He chose James Harris the day he met him in Dogpatch, and he stubbornly stuck by his friend. While the mutt liked Huong well enough, he devoted himself to Harris. The black man could not make the animal return to the dwelling without risking that the noise he made urging the mongrel to stay home would awaken his two Vietnamese cohorts. So with a shrug, he allowed the pet to tag along.

  Mau Mau knew that if he had awakened Huong, and the cowboy saw him trying to slip out, he might put a bullet in his head. On the other hand, if he returned from his mission holding an ear or finger along with James Elmore’s gold front tooth, proof that he had killed the traitor, Huong might very well scold him for his disobedience, but would likely congratulate him, too, for his success in exacting revenge.

  With Turd sniffing the ground close at his heels, James Harris had sneaked out of the farmhouse, down the two steps to the bare-earth front yard, and slipped into the forest. However, as he stepped through the tall
grass and into the trees, the incessant, loud croaking and buzzing of the thousands of frogs that lurked there went silent, spooked by his motion. The sudden quietness made the Marine deserter jump. He knew that as lightly as Huong slept, he might notice the change in the night sound and awaken. Anxiety sent Harris running, with Turd loping at his side.

  After awakening and finding the dog and his master missing, Huong walked outside, leaned against one of the front porch’s four support columns, and lit a cigarette.

  “He’s gone after that rat Elmo,” Bao said in Vietnamese to his brother, spitting as he said the traitor James Elmore’s name, and then lighting a cigarette. “Will you try to stop him?”

  “What do you think?” Huong asked, looking at Bao.

  “I say let the fool go,” Bao said, blowing out a breath of smoke. “Maybe he can kill Elmo.”

  Both men stood on the front porch, saying nothing and thinking as they looked into the morning darkness and listened as the voices of the frogs slowly returned.

  “I think maybe the Marines that patrol the fences at Chu Lai may very likely kill our foolish friend,” Huong said, clenching his cigarette in his lips as he spoke to his brother in their native language. “If Mau Mau remains lucky, though, the Americans may only capture him. That troubles me. I worry that he may talk of our plans and our money.”

  “Then we should go after him,” Bao said, flicking his spent butt onto the ground in front of the two steps that led onto the wooden porch where he stood by his older brother.

  “We have no hurry,” Huong said, and flicked his cigarette onto the barren yard, too. “I know where he is going. He told us yesterday, you may recall. Even if he runs the entire distance it will take him several hours to travel forty kilometers. We can drive near that place in thirty minutes, and maybe get a shot at the fool before the guards capture him. For now, I think I would like to drink some tea and eat a nice breakfast. It will take us a good while to drive to Saigon, once we finish our business here.”